


John's Fairy Godfather

by flawedamythyst



Series: Fairytales [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, fairytale AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-05
Updated: 2013-02-05
Packaged: 2017-11-28 08:50:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/672530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flawedamythyst/pseuds/flawedamythyst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John was scrubbing the floor when Sherlock appeared before him with a shimmer of magic and announced he was his fairy godfather, and that they were going to find him a True Love and a Happily Ever After.</p>
<p>Cinderella AU. God, I'm so sorry, guys.</p>
<p>Thanks to Victorix and H_E_Sarah for betaing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	John's Fairy Godfather

Getting down onto your hands and knees in order to scrub a floor is awkward and painful when you have a psychosomatic pain in your leg and a shoulder with a bullet in it, but John was damned if that meant he was just going to live with a dirty kitchen floor. Besides, it wasn't as if he had anything else left to clean, and he was bored. He'd been bored since he'd got back to London and discovered just how dull 'real life' was after a warzone.

All of which was why he was on one knee with his dodgy leg stretched out in front of him, scrubbing out the mysterious brown stain a previous tenant had left behind and swearing quietly under his breath when he first met Sherlock. There was a shower of glitter, a faint ringing sound, and then there was suddenly a man in the kitchen with John, wearing a designer suit and a long black coat.

John let out a startled noise and fell backwards onto his arse. “Bloody fucking hell!”

The man blinked at him. “Not the reaction I was expecting,” he said, “but I suppose it will do.”

“Who the buggering fuck are you, and what the hell are you doing in my kitchen?” asked John, struggling to get to his feet.

The man held out a hand to help him up which John reluctantly, distrustfully took rather than spend the next five minutes flailing about on the floor. 

“My name is Sherlock Holmes,” said the man, and then he left a dramatic pause before adding, “I'm your fairy godfather.”

John stared at him. “You're my _what_?”

Sherlock's jaw clenched, either with irritation or embarrassment, “Your fairy godfather,” he repeated.

John continued to stare. “You're younger than I am!” he pointed out, which was only one of several problems he had immediately identified with the situation. The only people he'd ever heard of with fairy godparents were the kind of pretty-but-simple girls who ended up as the trophy wives of millionaires. He was a wounded ex-soldier heading towards his fifth decade – he didn't see himself ending up married to the Prince Charming-type, somehow.

Sherlock shifted his feet, and this time he was definitely embarrassed. “Age is immaterial,” he said. “I am here to help you find your heart's desire.”

John still wasn't buying it. “You're not exactly dressed like a fairy godparent.”

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. “If you're imagining me in some kind of pink, lacy garment,” he said, “you can stop immediately. My sartorial choices have no impact on how well I am able to perform my duties.”

“Right,” said John sceptically.

Sherlock let out a very long sigh, then reached into his coat and fished out a wand. It was black, but it did have a star on the top and when Sherlock waved it, it left a trail of sparkling lights in the air. “Satisfied?”

A magic wand did seem pretty conclusive. Apparently he had a fairy godfather. That was going to take some getting his head around. “Yeah, okay,” he conceded.

“Excellent,” said Sherlock, tucking the wand away again. “We can get on with it then. What's your heart's desire?”

John had never thought about it, but it didn't take more than a split-second for him to work out what he wanted. “To be healed so I can go back into the Army.”

Sherlock frowned. “No, no,” he said. “Can't go back. It has to be something that pushes you forward, something that creates a new and perfect life for you. Don't you have a True Love that you're cruelly separated from or something?”

“Uh, no,” said John. Who the hell had an actual True Love these days?

Sherlock's frown deepened and he started to pace. “We'll have to find you one, then,” he said. “Where does one find a True Love?”

“Wouldn't it be better if I had a job first?” asked John. “Who's going to want to date an unemployed soldier?”

Sherlock waved that away. “Not a problem, we'll just find you a rich True Love. Then you won't ever need a job again. Life of luxury and happiness, all that sort of thing.”

John wasn't sure about that. He rather liked having a job and feeling as if he had a purpose.

Sherlock's eyes fell on the newspaper that John had left on the kitchen worktop after he'd failed to finish the crossword. “Ah! Perfect!” he said, snatching it up. “Princess Sarah is holding a grand ball to celebrate her thirtieth birthday tonight. She's not married, is she? We'll send you along and you can fall in love with her.”

“Just like that,” said John sceptically. “All I'd need to do is be in the same room as her.”

“Yes, yes,” said Sherlock. “That's how True Love works.” He glanced at his watch, then pulled his wand back out. “We've got less than an hour to get you ready. What do we need?”

“An invitation?” asked John. “They don't let in just anyone off the street, you know.”

Sherlock waved his wand at the newspaper. There was a shower of glittering lights and it turned into an ornate invitation. “You're on the guest list,” he said. “That's the easy part. What on earth are you going to wear?”

John mentally ran through his wardrobe. “I've got a suit,” he said, although he was pretty sure it wasn't at all the sort of thing one wore to a Princess's Grand Ball. “That's about it.”

Sherlock let out a long sigh. “I have _magic_ ,” he said, as if John was a small and confused child. “I can create you any outfit I can imagine. It's just a question of which style to go for.”

He studied John with narrowed eyes, making John feel rather self-conscious about the shabby jeans and old jumper he had been cleaning in. 

“Got it,” Sherlock said, and waved his wand again.

An instant later, John's clothes had been transfigured into an extremely expensive-looking suit, complete with a bowtie and cufflinks set with large, sparkling stones. “Oh, wow,” he said, looking down at himself.

“Do you like it?” asked Sherlock.

“I don't-” John shook his head. “It's great, I'm just not sure it's very me. Can I really pull this off?”

“Of course you can,” said Sherlock. “You look extremely handsome, there's no need to worry about that.”

John was momentarily struck dumb at the idea of looking any level of handsome, let alone 'extremely'. “Oh, right,” he said eventually, then cleared his throat. He looked at the giant, dazzling cufflinks again. “Um, any chance we could swap these for something a bit less...blingy?”

Sherlock let out a loud sigh and waved his wand again. The cufflinks changed into much smaller, more tasteful ones. John examined them and discovered they were engraved with the crest of his old regiment. He smiled. “Much better.”

“If you're quite done complaining about details, we need to get you some transport,” said Sherlock.

“Right,” said John. He grabbed for his cane in order to move towards the front door.

Sherlock glared at the aluminium, NHS-standard cane. “That does not match your outfit at all.”

“Tough,” said John. “I need it. Unless you're intending to heal my leg after all.”

Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh. “I can't heal what's not injured,” he said. “It's all in your mind – do you really want me messing around up there?”

“God, no,” said John.

“Well then,” said Sherlock. He looked at the stick again, then waved his wand. It turned into an elegant black cane, topped with a silver ball. Great, John was going to look like a Fred Astaire wannabe. 

“There,” said Sherlock. “Much better. Come on, you need to get going or you'll be late.”

He swept out of John's flat and John hurried to keep up with him, wondering what the hell he was doing. The sensible thing to do would be to tell Sherlock to piss off, and then go back to his cleaning, but he was rather sick of doing the sensible thing. Besides, he wanted to see what Sherlock would do next – what kind of transport did he think John needed to go with this suit? A glass carriage pulled by four white horses?

Outside, Sherlock looked both ways down the road, and then raised a hand. “Taxi!” One pulled up immediately.

John looked at the taxi, then back at Sherlock, who rolled his eyes. “Doesn't matter how you arrive,” he said. “No one's going to be watching the road.”

He had a point. And a taxi in London was still an extravagance, even if it lacked the flair of a horse-drawn carriage.

Sherlock pulled open the door for John, gesturing for him to get in. “Go on,” he said. “Have fun, do all those boring social things people seem to like doing, and good luck finding True Love.”

“Right,” said John again, eyeing the taxi. “You're not coming, then?”

“Why on earth would I?” asked Sherlock. “I'm not looking for a True Love, or a Happily Ever After. Come on, get in, or you'll be late.” 

John gave in and got into the taxi.

“Oh!” added Sherlock just as he was about to shut the door. “And make sure you leave by midnight. One of those stupid things about magic – it doesn't usually last into the next day.” He told the driver the address of the palace, handed John enough money to pay for the taxi, and then gave him a rather insincere smile. “Have fun!”

He shut the door and the taxi pulled away. John sat in it and wondered what the hell he was doing.

****

Much to John's surprise, he was waved into the ball without any problems. It was a very grand affair, full of women in beautiful dresses, men in elegant suits and waiters in tailcoats carrying trays of expensive champagne and minuscule nibbles. John didn't know a single person there.

He stopped by the door, not quite sure what to do. He couldn't dance, not with his leg, and he was pretty sure that drinking too many glasses of champagne would be a bad idea. Maybe he could try mingling.

He spent twenty minutes attempting to mingle, but quickly realised that it was incredibly difficult to make polite small talk when you couldn't tell anyone who you were, what you did, or how you knew the Princess. In the end, he retreated to one of the curtained alcoves along the wall with a glass of champagne and the smallest quiche he'd ever seen. What the hell was he doing here? What was he hoping to achieve? Finding his True Love – what bollocks. He'd seen Princess Sarah a handful of times, across the room, and there hadn't been any eyes-meeting, hearts-leaping type rubbish. Just a reasonably attractive woman in one of the more sensible dresses on display that night, having a good time with her friends.

John's leg was starting to really ache. The new cane wasn't as comfortable to rest his weight on as the old one had been. He tucked himself into a curtained alcove, slumped against the wall and watched the dancing couples twirl around, wondering if he'd ever be able to do that again.

“You all right?” asked a voice behind him and he started, then turned to see a rather good-looking man with silver hair standing in the alcove with him.

“Fine,” said John. “Just- my leg.”

The man glanced at it, then nodded. “I told Sarah we should have some chairs in here, but she decided they'd spoil the aesthetic, or some such bollocks,” he said. “I could probably find you one, if you wanted.”

Someone who was on first name terms with a princess just offered to get him a chair. John wasn't sure what to do with that. 

“Uh, no, it's fine,” he said. The pain was psychosomatic, after all. He wasn't going to pander to it with a chair.

“Well, let me know if you change your mind,” said the man, and he held his hand out. “I'm Greg Lestrade.”

John shook his hand. “John Watson,” he said. “So, you know why I'm hiding in a corner rather than dancing – what's your excuse?”

“Dance with any of that lot?” asked Greg, nodding at the aristocrats twirling across the floor. “You've got to be kidding. Besides, I'm running the security. Technically, I'm on the look-out for trouble.”

Oh shit. Of all the people in the room, why did John have to get chatting to the head of security? What if he found out John's invitation was less than legitimate?

“Not that there's likely to be any,” said Greg, apparently not noticing John's sudden panic. “I've helped organise hundreds of these things, and I don't think anything interesting has ever happened at any of them. Unless you count the Earl of Norfolk getting so drunk that he passed out on top of a waiter. Poor man – they had to pay him a good whack in compensation. The Earl's not a light man.”

“Right,” said John, distracted from his internal debate by the mental image.

“No need to worry,” said Greg. “He's not here tonight. There's no chance of being crushed by nobility unless the Countess of Derby spots you and takes a fancy. Her style of flirtation is a bit like Blitzkrieg.”

John felt his eyes widen and he looked around the room. “Which one is she?”

“Over there,” said Greg, nodding at an ageing woman wearing a dress that would have been more suitable if she were thirty years younger.

“Ah,” said John. “Yeah, I'll steer clear. Thanks for the warning.”

He stood chatting with Greg for rather a long time, finding out all kinds of scandalous facts about the rich and titled. It was better than an episode of Downton Abbey. He also found out that Greg was actually a police officer, and only ran the security at royal events because he'd drawn the short straw nearly a decade ago, and hadn't been able to escape since.

“I ended up making friends with Sarah, and now she keeps requesting me,” he said. “I mean, she's fine, but dealing with the other nobs is a headache I could definitely do without. Uh, not that there's anything wrong with being a nob, of course.”

He gave John a worried look, and John abruptly remembered that he was pretending to be someone who would get invited to this kind of party, and who might well turn out to be a nob. He was about to reassure Greg that there was no way he could get away with that epithet, when there was a voice from behind them.

“Lestrade, there you are! I've been looking everywhere.”

John turned to find Princess Sarah behind them, and felt his eyes boggle, and not just at suddenly being so close to someone he was far more accustomed to seeing in the newspapers. Although her outfit had looked sensible from a distance, closer to he could see the sheer level of jewels she was dripping with. It looked as if her motto was 'if you can add another diamond, why not go for it?' Luckily, all Sarah's attention was on Greg, and so she missed John's double-take at the dazzling light sparkling off her.

“My apologies, Your Highness,” said Greg with a little bow. John wondered if he too should be bowing or genuflecting or something.

Sarah scowled. “Don't give me any of that crap,” she said. “You know I hate it. Come on, we're going to do the cake and all that rubbish now.”

“Right,” said Greg. He turned back to John. “I've got to go, but it was good chatting to you. Maybe we can carry on later?”

“I'd like that,” said John. He held out his arm for a handshake, but instead Greg stepped in and gave his shoulder a squeeze. It was a bit more intimate than a casual chat with a stranger called for, but John found himself responding with a bit of a back pat, and the thought that he wouldn't mind getting even more intimate later on. The smile Greg gave him as he left made it seem as if he wouldn't mind either.

It was only after Greg and Princess Sarah had gone off that John thought to check his watch to see just how much longer he had before midnight. 11.35. Shit. It was much, much later than he'd thought. He was going to have to leave now, and miss out on both talking to Greg again and having a try for something more. Bollocks.

The music stopped and he looked up to see Princess Sarah, Greg and a couple of other people John didn't recognise on the stage.

“Good evening, friends,” said Princess Sarah in the tone of voice that meant a speech. Oh god, it was probably treason to leave a party while a member of the Royal Family was giving a speech. John looked at his watch again and decided he could probably afford to stay long enough to hear it. It didn't matter if his clothes changed back before he got into a taxi, after all.

The speech Princess Sarah gave was rather standard. Thanks for coming, thanks to those who helped organise the event, a few jokes about how old she was and then a gesture to the kitchen for the entrance of the cake.

The band played a fanfare as it was carried in and John checked his watch again. Still ten minutes to go.

That was when all the lights went out, plunging the room into darkness. There were a few scattered screams, then a loud bang and a cry. 

“Get off! Thief!”

Commotion broke out as all the nobles started panicking. Footsteps rushed towards John's position, and someone ran into him.

“Out the way!” hissed an Irish accent, and an arm pushed at John.

John's leg buckled underneath him and he grabbed at the man to keep himself upright. The man shoved him, there was a ripping sound, and then John fell backwards, knocking his head against the wall.

The next thing he knew, the lights were back on, although the panic was still continuing. He was on the floor, mostly tucked behind a curtain, and his head hurt. He groaned and sat up, pushing the curtain away to see the jumble of confused and upset nobility milling about and shouting at each other. He was still clutching whatever he had torn off the Irishman's clothes in his hand, and he shoved it into a pocket absent-mindedly. What the hell had happened?

A commanding voice rang out. “Everyone be quiet!” It was Greg. He was standing on stage, looking calm and in command. John took the chance to admire the lines of his figure in the suit he was wearing, which he had been too close to properly appreciate earlier. 

“Stay where you are,” continued Greg. “The princess's jewels have been stolen. We will need to question all of you. Just remain calm, and follow any instructions given to you by my men.”

Oh god. John looked at his watch. 11.58. He only had two minutes – he couldn't afford to wait around to be questioned. He needed to get out of there before his clothes turned back to what he'd been wearing to clean the floor, and his invitation turned back into a newspaper.

He pulled himself to his feet and looked around. There were security men on all the doors, but the windows weren't guarded. How high up were they? It couldn't be more than one floor. He started to edge towards the nearest window, trying to look like every other panic-struck reveller aimlessly wandering about. Part of him wanted to start whistling inconspicuously, but he stifled the urge.

At the window, he glanced out. There was a one-storey drop, and then bushes underneath. Perfect. He carefully eased open the window, then glanced around the room. No one seemed to be paying him any attention, or at least they didn't until he glanced at the stage. Greg was looking at him, and as their eyes met, he gave John a small smile, as if relieved to see him okay.

_Shit,_ thought John. Escaping out the window at this point was going to make him a suspect, as well as ruin any chance he had with Greg. He glanced at his watch again. 11.59. He didn't have a choice.

He gave Greg an apologetic shrug, then turned around and dove through the window.

“Stop that man!” he heard Greg shout as he landed in the bushes, crashing through twigs and leaves to the ground. God, that had hurt. He staggered to his feet and took off running as more voices started shouting after him. Near-by, a clock was starting to strike midnight.

He dashed out of the garden as footsteps pounded down the path behind him, then across the road, causing several cars to brake suddenly.

“Sorry!” he called as he reached the pavement on the other side and the clock reached its fifth bong. He had to get somewhere hidden if his clothes were about to change. He darted around a corner, across another road, and then down a dark alleyway just as the clock struck twelve.

There was a flurry of bright lights swirling around him for a moment, blocking out the world. When they were gone, he looked down to find he was back in his old jeans and jumper, with nothing left of his finery.

“Oi!” said a voice behind him and he spun around to see a pair of security guards. “You see a bloke come through here in a dinner jacket?”

They didn't recognise him in his old clothes. John pointed further down the alley. “He just went that way,” he said. “Never seen anyone run so fast.”

The two guards ran off in the direction he'd pointed and John let out a sigh of relief. He was safely away.

Safely away, and unlikely to ever see Greg again unless he was being arrested by him. Brilliant. So much for a night out to find a True Love and a Happily Ever After.

****

The next morning, the front page of the newspaper screamed 'PRINCESS'S JEWELS STOLEN! BIRTHDAY CELEBRATIONS RUINED BY THIEF!!'

The third paragraph included a description of the alleged thief – 5ft 7, short blond hair, blue eyes - and said that the police were seeking any information about him. Luckily, the description was vague enough to not immediately suggest John, especially not to people who knew just how unlikely it was that he was a jewel thief.

It was the fourth paragraph that made him stop and stare.

_The suspect was seen using a cane during the early part of the evening, although he left it behind when he made his escape. Experts say it is one-of-a-kind, and anyone who might recognise it is urged to come forward._

Underneath was a picture of the elegant cane Sherlock had created from John's old stick. He stared at it, wondering how the hell he hadn't noticed that he'd jumped out of a window, run down several roads and got the tube all the way home without the slightest pain from his leg.

“What have you done?!” exclaimed a voice behind him, and John turned his head to see that Sherlock had appeared. “I set this up perfectly, and you've ruined the whole thing! What is wrong with you?!”

John rolled his eyes at the distraught look on Sherlock's face and turned back to the paper. “Apparently Princess Sarah isn't my True Love after all.”

“That didn't mean you had to steal her jewels!” said Sherlock.

“I didn't,” said John. “I just had to escape before midnight – you were the one who told me that was important.”

Sherlock let out a long sigh and collapsed into the chair opposite John's. “There must still be a way to fix this,” he said. “The magic took you there – your True Love must have been there somewhere. That's how it works. Who did you talk to? Any charming young ladies who caught your eye?” He said 'charming young ladies' as if he was saying 'festering maggot-infested corpses'.

“Not really,” said John. “The only person I really talked to was Greg.”

Sherlock looked up with a spark in his eyes. “Greg?” he repeated. “Could it be...?” He gave John a once over. “Yes, of course. Of course! He's your True Love!”

John stared. “Don't be ridiculous. We just had a chat, that's all.”

“Don't be small-minded,” retorted Sherlock. “It's obvious – you should see your face when you say his name. He's the one.”

“You better hope not,” said John, holding up the paper. He pointed to the final paragraph. “He's the policeman leading the investigation, and I'm his main suspect.”

Sherlock snatched the paper from him and skimmed over the article. “Then we'll just have to find the real criminal,” he said. “You can hand him over to Greg and earn his gratitude, and his undying love.”

John thought about being able to hand over the real thief to Greg, and how his gratitude might manifest itself. That could be rather fun, even if True Love still seemed a bit of a stretch. Not that it was likely to happen, though - Sherlock had missed out a crucial stage in his plan. 

“How am I meant to do that?” John asked. “Finding thieves isn't exactly in my repertoire.”

Sherlock made a frustrated noise. “What is wrong with you?!” burst out of him as if it have been bottled up for far too long. “Ever since I arrived, I've been having to bully you into doing things – anyone would think you didn't want to have a Happily Ever After!”

John scowled. “Maybe I just want to find my happiness in my own time, and not get forced into what some fairy thinks is a good idea.”

“For god's sake, John! I'm not just some fairy, I'm your fairy godfather! I know what's best for you.”

“Oh, right,” said John. “Because no one with bad motives ever claimed to know what was best for someone else.”

Sherlock sank his hands into his hair and pulled on it with clenched fingers. “Why are you being so stubborn? None of the training manuals ever said anything about people refusing to be helped to their Happily Ever After.”

Training manuals? John felt his eyes narrow. “Hang on, just how times have you done this?”

Sherlock released his hair and cleared his throat. “You're my first godchild,” he admitted.

John groaned. “Oh god, no wonder I'm now wanted by the police.”

“You're wanted by one policeman in particular,” corrected Sherlock. “We're going to fix the rest. John, you will get your Happily Ever After, I promise.”

John rubbed a hand over his face. “I should just move away from London,” he said wearily. “Get away from this mess and try and start again.”

Sherlock flinched. “God, no, don't do that,” he said. “You'd be miserable. Come on, just give me a chance. I can make this work, I promise.”

John let out a long sigh, then looked at Sherlock's face. His expression was enough to make John give in. “Fine,” he said, hoping he wouldn't regret it. “We'll try and find this thief, but if it looks like I'm going to be arrested, you're helping me flee the city.”

“Agreed,” said Sherlock. “I could hardly let you be arrested anyway – that would look really bad on my record.”

They started by going through every detail of the party that John could remember. Sherlock made him go through the events after the lights went out twice.

“The man who knocked into you must have been the thief,” he said. “No one else would have been in such a hurry, or would have just left you once you'd fallen. You said you ripped something off his clothes – where did you put it?”

“In my pocket,” said John. “But that was my dinner jacket pocket, and it melted away at midnight.”

“That's not a problem,” said Sherlock. He pulled out his wand and waved it again, and John was suddenly sitting at his breakfast in a suit. He reached in the pocket and took out a scrap of material and a button, which Sherlock snatched from him and closely examined.

John cleared his throat. “Uh, is this going to last until midnight?” he asked, gesturing to his new outfit.

Sherlock looked up with a frown, took in the suit, and let out a long sigh. “Go away,” he said to the clothes. “We're done with you now.”

There was a sulky-sounding shimmery noise as the clothes melted back into John's pyjamas.

“Right,” he said. His eye caught on the picture of his cane in the paper. “Hey, Sherlock, why didn't the cane turn back to my old stick last night?”

Sherlock was completely engrossed looking at the button. “It's still fulfilling a role,” he said absently. “The magic will keep it here as long as it's needed – one of those tedious, trying-too-hard-to-help things.” He pulled a magnifying glass out of his pocket in order to examine the button and the scrap of material it was clinging to more closely.

“Interesting,” he said in a hushed voice. He reached back into his coat pocket and pulled out an expensive-looking microscope that should not have been able to fit into there.

John sat back and watched him, wondering what the hell he could tell from such a tiny piece of evidence.

“Right,” said Sherlock when he leaned back. “Our suspect lives in London but has recently been on a trip to South America, probably Peru. He is a professional criminal who has made a lot of money, but he was not brought up in a wealthy environment. He doesn't smoke, but he does associate with someone who does. He has a love of drama, thinks he's cleverer than he is, and has a name that begins with M.”

John stared at him. “That's a magic microscope, right?”

Sherlock glared. “Of course not,” he said. “That would be _cheating_.”

“Then how-”

“The button has been hand-stitched on in a way that only a handful of tailors use, all of whom live in London, so he's rich and a London-dweller. However, although the material is expensive, the thread used is extremely cheap. Anyone who knew about suits, who had been brought up with money, would notice that immediately. The tailor knew he could get away with cutting corners, so our man must be only newly wealthy. There are three different types of pollen that are native only to South America – too many to be a coincidence – and also the faintest trace of cigarette smoke. Not enough for him to be the smoker, must be someone he was standing close to. And, lastly, there is the button itself.” He held it up so that John could see that it wasn't just a plain black button as he'd thought. It was embossed with a fanciful design featuring an M and a skull. “Clearly likes to show off, otherwise why would he wear something like that while conducting a robbery?”

John looked at the button, then back at Sherlock's face. “That was amazing,” he said in an awestruck voice.

Sherlock blinked. “Was it?” he asked.

“God yes,” said John. “All that, from just a button? It's incredible!”

A small smile spread over Sherlock's face. “It was rather fun,” he said. He leapt up off the chair. “Come on! Let's go and catch a thief. I bet that'll be even more fun.”

“Hang on,” said John, “I need to get dressed.”

Sherlock let out an aggravated noise as if just the thought of waiting was physically painful, but paused long enough for John to throw some clothes on, before he dashed out the door with John only half a step behind him.

It wasn't until they were in a taxi that John thought to ask, “Where are we going?”

“We need a copy of the guest list,” said Sherlock.

“Right,” said John. “Couldn't you just...” He waved his hand in a manner that he hoped conveyed Sherlock's wand.

“ _Cheating,_ John,” said Sherlock. “We're going to do this properly.”

The taxi dropped them off outside the palace, right in front of the front gates, and the two guards in front of them. John immediately ducked his head away, trying to cover his face. “Sherlock!” he hissed. “Are you insane?”

“Oh, don't worry,” said Sherlock. “No one's going to recognise you in that hideous jumper.” He strode up the nearest guard while John was looking down at his jumper, wondering what was wrong with it.

“We need to speak to a publicist,” Sherlock announced.

The guard looked him over, then sneered. “Piss off,” she said.

Sherlock sighed. “We're reporters,” he said. “Do you really want us doing an exposé on the corruption in the palace guard, starting with the fact that you spent a considerable amount of time last night kneeling in front of your colleague here? I do hope that wasn't while the theft was taking place.”

The guard blanched. “You can't know that.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Have you seen the state of your knees? Now, quickly, a publicist, please. We don't have all day.”

The guard exchanged a look with her colleague, who just shrugged and scowled at Sherlock, then pulled out a walkie-talkie. Sherlock gave John a satisfied look, and John wondered how someone whose job it was to help people find happiness could be so unspeakably rude.

The publicist was extremely harried-looking when he finally emerged. Sherlock looked him over, then his whole body seemed to melt into a new, more relaxed posture. “Hello,” he said in a smarmy voice. “I'm so sorry to bother you. I'm Simon Peascombe, and this is my partner Jack Hutchins. We write the society pages in Royalty Monthly.”

The publicist straightened up. “Oh, right,” he said. “How can I help you?”

“We want to write a piece on last night's event,” started Sherlock, and the man's face immediately shut down.

“There's no comment on the theft at this time,” he said. “The investigation is ongoing.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” said Sherlock. “Actually, we wanted to focus more on the party before the theft. Who was there, who was wearing what, who came with a model half their age, that kind of thing.”

The man's face lit up. “Oh, that's another matter,” he said. “How can I help?”

They came away with a full list of the guests, copies of all the photos the official photographer had taken, and several bits and pieces of gossip that the publicist had been unable to resist sharing with them. John hadn't actually wanted to know that about the Earl of Marlborough, but he was stuck with the mental images now.

“This is excellent!” said Sherlock once they were in another cab and heading back to John's. “With all this information, I should be able to unravel this in no time at all.” He was completely caught up in the mystery, bouncing out of the cab and into John's flat as if he were a small child on Christmas morning.

He spread the paperwork out over every flat surface John had, then spent several hours taking it all in, shushing John every time he opened his mouth to ask if he could help or if Sherlock wanted tea. In the end, John just left him to it.

He opened up his laptop and then spent several minutes staring at the blog his therapist had insisted he start before realising that he couldn't write about anything that had happened in the last twenty-four hours. Instead, he went to Google, typed in Greg Lestrade's name, and spent a long time scrolling through pages about various investigations he had worked on and big royal events he had done the security for. He told himself that he was gathering data to see what kind of man was trying to hunt him down, but really he was just enjoying the photos. Greg really knew how to wear a suit.

“Got him!” exclaimed Sherlock after several hours of silence. He grabbed a photo and thrust it in John's face. “That man there, in the background.”

John took the photo so he could focus on it. Sherlock was pointing at a young-looking man with dark hair and a smirk.

“He's our thief,” said Sherlock.

“You're sure?”

“Oh yes. And his name is...” Sherlock rifled through a stack of papers, “Sebastian Moran, James Moriarty, or Captain Eric Morstan.”

“You've managed to work that out in only a few hours?” asked John, not sure if he was impressed or incredulous.

“Yes,” said Sherlock. “It was easy, once I started thinking about it the right way. All the pieces just flew together in my head.” He did a sweeping gesture with his hands.

John put the photo down and looked at Sherlock's exhilarated face. “You're really enjoying this.”

“Crime is fascinating,” said Sherlock. “All those mysteries and secrets, getting to unravel them all and coming up with the only possible solution – it's brilliant.”

He seemed almost like a different person from the caustic man John had met yesterday. “Maybe you should have become a detective rather than a fairy godfather.”

Sherlock's face immediately shut down. “Fairies, male fairies, only have a limited number of career paths,” he said. “Flower fairy, puck, godparenting or faffing about pointlessly in the Queen's court. I think I made the best choice under the circumstances. Now, come on - we need to go and find out this man's name and what he's done with the jewels so that we can clear your name and win over your True Love. I expect he'll be so pleased to get his case solved that he'll immediately sweep you off to your Happily Ever After, and I can move on to my next godchild.”

John stood up, reaching for his coat and wondering how things had ended up getting so insane in just one day. “Got a lot of godchildren then, have you?” he asked. Did that mean he had godsiblings? Hopefully not – his blood sibling was enough of a hassle.

Sherlock shrugged. “There's a list at Head Office,” he said. “I'll just be allocated the next one on it.”

Apparently fairy godfathering was a lot more bureaucratic than John had expected.

“Bring your gun,” said Sherlock. “Could be dangerous.”

The words sent a thrill down John's spine even as he wondered how the hell Sherlock knew he had a very illegal and carefully hidden handgun. _Fairy_ , he reminded himself, but he wasn't sure that was it. Most of the things Sherlock appeared to just know turned out not to be part of his magic at all, but from a kind of genius that John hadn't seen before.

He definitely wanted to see more of it, though. He retrieved his gun and tucked it into the back of his jeans, wondering if the illicit thrill it gave him was something he should be talking to his therapist about.

****

Over the next hour or so, John and Sherlock broke into two different houses for just long enough for Sherlock to look around, announce they were in the wrong place, and then leave again. John wasn't really sure why he was just following along behind without bothering to question what they were doing. Possibly he was waiting for Sherlock to go completely nuts, possibly he was just crazy himself.

“Tell me again why you're not using magic?” asked John in a whisper as Sherlock picked the lock on the third house, the one that belonged to James Moriarty.

“Cheating,” said Sherlock again. “Besides, how are we meant to present your True Love with the evidence that you're innocent and this man is guilty if half of it was got by means we can't explain?”

He had a point, but John wasn't sure that evidence gathered by illegal trespass would be any better. And he really wished Sherlock would stop calling Greg his 'True Love'. He barely knew the man; it seemed presumptuous. 

Sherlock made a triumphant noise as the door clicked open. “Stay here and keep watch,” he said, then slipped inside. John made a face at being left behind, then went back out to the road to loiter and watch for trouble.

There was no one much around other than the occasional dogwalker or harried-looking parent with a pram. He kept a close watch out anyway, occasionally glancing over his shoulder at the house as Sherlock's silhouette went from room to room. He'd already been in there for far longer than he had in the other two houses. Did that mean this was the home of the thief, or just that it was taking Sherlock longer to rule it out?

John shifted his weight from his right leg to his left leg, quietly taking pleasure in how easy it was to do that now. He'd been afraid that he'd wake up this morning with the pain back where it had been for months now, but it was still gone. He was beginning to hope that it was never coming back, and that he was free of the limp for good.

He glanced over his shoulder again and froze in shock. Sherlock's silhouette was visible in an upstairs window, but his was not the only shadow in the room, and the other one was holding out his arm in the unmistakeable gesture of a man holding a gun.

Shit. Did fairies die when they were shot? John could vaguely remember something about iron being bad for them, which didn't bode well. He glanced both ways down the still empty street, pulled out his own gun, and headed up the drive.

He crept in through the back door, then up the stairs, until he was just outside the door of the room that contained Sherlock and the man, who John assumed was the owner of the house, Jim Moriarty.

He paused for a moment to listen.

“I know the name of every detective in London, both official and unofficial. You might say it's a crucial part of my business. I've never heard of you, Sherlock Holmes.” It was the same voice as last night. This was definitely the man that had knocked John down, and so almost certainly the thief.

“I'm new in town,” said Sherlock, tersely.

“Oh, fabulous,” said Moriarty. The way he spoke, with a strange, sing-song lilt, made John's flesh crawl. He didn't sound entirely sane. “Then there'll be no one to report you missing.” There was the unmistakeable sound of a gun being cocked.

“Won't it be a bit messy to shoot me in your bedroom?” asked Sherlock.

“Oh, I have a really excellent cleaner,” said Moriarty. “You wouldn't believe the things he can do. I shot a man on the sofa downstairs once – the cream one - and you can barely tell where his brains splattered at all now. I swear, the man is magic.” 

Right, that was enough. John took a deep breath, straightened his posture, then burst through the door, shouting, “Get down, Sherlock!”

He shot at almost the same moment Moriarty did, but neither of them hit their targets. Sherlock threw himself to the ground too quickly for Moriarty's bullet to do more than whine over his head – John suspected he'd decided that using magic to move faster than would be possible for a human wasn't cheating. John's bullet missed by a hair's width, shattering the window behind Moriarty rather than his ribcage.

“Oh, you do have a friend in town!” said Moriarty, turning to aim at John. “How lovely, and yet also intensely irritating.”

John kept his gun trained on him and wondered what to do now. If he shot at Moriarty, would the bullet reach him, and kill him, before he could pull the trigger on his own gun? If John didn't shoot him, was he going to be the one who ended up being hit by a bullet? He bloody hated stand-offs.

“No need to look worried,” said Moriarty, taking a step backwards. “I'm not going to shoot you, or my new friend Sherlock here. Not right now.” He took another step backwards, and John realised he was heading to the window. “You both seem far too interesting for me to end this quickly. Maybe we could play a game together!”

“I'm not really the game-playing type,” said Sherlock, standing up. He didn't sound convincing though, and John spared him a split-second glance to see that an intrigued look had settled on his face. No bloody way.

“Not happening,” he said before Moriarty could tempt Sherlock any further. “You're going to prison.”

“Am I?” asked Moriarty. “I don't think so.” He actually sang that, and John twitched with irritation. “You have no proof I've done anything unless you find the jewels, but they are very, very well hidden. Unless I'm very much mistaken, you're the one whose face has been plastered all over the papers, so if you don't prove my guilt, you'll be the one in prison.”

“He has a point, John,” said Sherlock.

“I know!” exclaimed Moriarty. “A treasure hunt!” The sound of sirens started in the distance before he could continue, and he twitched nervously. “I think that's my cue to leave. I'll be in contact.” He took another step in the direction of the shattered window.

“Stop moving, or I'll shoot,” said John. “You're not going anywhere.”

“If the police come here, you're going to be the one who ends up in prison,” said Moriarty, but there was something nervous about the tone of his voice and for the first time, John wondered if he was bluffing.

“Don't risk it, John,” said Sherlock. “You'll miss out on your Happily Ever After. Let him go, and we'll find the jewels and then catch him later.”

“No,” said John. “I'm willing to bet that the police will find something in this house that will implicate him, and exonerate me. I can't believe there's no sign of the crime here at all.”

Moriarty was glancing anxiously over his shoulder at where the sirens were coming from. “I think you're underestimating my genius,” he said, but he sounded a lot less confident than he had been.

Police cars pulled up in the road outside, and doors slammed.

“And besides,” added John to Sherlock. “It's not as if you can't just wave your wand and find the jewels without bothering to play this madman's game.”

“He can do what?” asked Moriarty, looking at Sherlock with interest.

Sherlock gave John a black glare, just as the front door crashed in downstairs.

“We're up here!” called John.

A moment later, the room was full of police. “Put the guns down! Keep your hands where we can see them!”

“This is the man who robbed Princess Louise,” said John, waiting until Moriarty had lowered his gun before he did the same with his.

“You need to put your gun down,” said the police officer again. John gave in, and let them take his weapon and cuff him.

He, Sherlock and Moriarty were all taken out of the house in handcuffs before anyone would let John explain, and he was just resigning himself to having to wait until they were at the police station when he saw Greg.

He was standing next to a police car, talking into a radio, but he stopped the moment he saw John. “You!” he said.

“Hello again,” said John. Greg was dressed in a suit that looked as if it had seen better days and a long coat that might as well have had 'Police Detective' embroidered on it. He looked tired and stressed, and very handsome, in a rumpled way. 

“I've found your thief for you,” added John. Did that count as a courting gift? Perhaps John should have put a ribbon around Moriarty. Too late now, the criminal was being pushed into a police car to be taken to the station.

Greg's eyes narrowed. “You're my thief.”

“Only a complete idiot could think that,” said Sherlock.

John glared at him. “Not helpful.”

“And who's this?” asked Greg. He looked Sherlock over, obviously taking in the expensive, tailored suit and artfully styled hair. “Your accomplice?” There was a note to the way he said 'accomplice' that implied rather more than that.

“No,” said John quickly. “No, he's just, uh,” Shit, how was he going to explain Sherlock? He couldn't reveal the fairy thing, and just 'godfather' was going to look extremely odd. “Family,” he ended weakly.

“Family,” repeated Greg, sceptically.

“I'm his cousin,” said Sherlock. “No need to worry that I'm already filling the position you want in John's life, I promise.”

“The position I want in John's life is to be his arresting officer,” said Greg.

“I haven't done anything illegal,” protested John.

“Yeah?” asked Greg. “Got a permit for that gun, have you?”

John hesitated. “Nothing very illegal,” he corrected.

“I think you're underestimating the severity of unauthorised firearm possession,” said Greg. “Besides which, you still haven't managed to persuade me that you're not a jewel thief.”

“I can do that,” said Sherlock. “I just need a moment back in the house with my hands uncuffed.”

Greg gave him a look of complete disbelief that made John smile, despite the severity of the situation, because it was pretty much his reaction to half of what Sherlock said as well.

“Yeah? Want us all to shut our eyes and count to a hundred as well? Maybe leave the keys in one of the cars?” 

Sherlock let out an extremely long sigh that went on until John was impressed he was able to hold that much air inside his lungs. Maybe it was a fairy thing. 

“You may supervise me,” he said. “You and John can come with me and watch. It will be more than worth your while, I promise, and it is very likely to be the only chance you have of getting the jewels back.”

Greg rubbed at his face, then glanced around at the police officers who were watching. “Oh, fine,” he said.

“Sir!” protested one of the other officers.

Greg didn't let her finish. “I want you to get everyone else to surround the house, Donovan,” he said. “Don't argue – you know we need to retrieve the jewels.”

She looked as if she'd downed a bottle of lemon juice, but she nodded her head in acknowledgement and turned away to start yelling orders.

“You better not be pissing about,” said Greg to Sherlock.

“I don't 'piss about',” said Sherlock.

“It's fine,” said John. “He's a genius – if anyone can find them, he can. You should have seen him when he was working out who the thief was – it was incredible.”

Sherlock looked at him in surprise for a moment, then a pleased smile spread across his face as if he'd never been complimented before. John couldn't help returning it. He didn't know about True Love, but he'd definitely gained a good friend in the last twenty-four hours.

“And you're sure you're not fucking?” asked Greg after a few too many moments had passed.

Sherlock's expression turned disgusted. “God, no,” he said, and the vehemence in his voice was more than enough to prove the point.

“Just friends,” added John. “Uh, and cousins. Friendly cousins. I'm actually single.” Was that too much?

Greg gave him an interested look. “Like me, then,” he said. Their gazes met. A few moments passed as they just looked at each other, and a hot flush began to rise up John's body.

Sherlock cleared his throat. “Can we get the jewels sorted out before you two start eye-fucking?” he asked. “Once John's innocence is confirmed, you two can go off and have your Happily Ever After with as many adoring looks as you want.”

John went red. “Sherlock!” he hissed.

“Oh yeah,” said Greg. “You're definitely family.” He glanced over his shoulder at Donovan, who had got all the other police officers in place in a ring around the house. “Right then, let's play this game, shall we?”

They went into the house and Sherlock led them into the sitting room, which had long blinds over the windows, hiding them from the police officers outside. He turned to Greg. “I would prefer it if you didn't reveal to anyone what I am about to tell you.”

“It's all going to have to go in my report,” said Greg stubbornly.

“This is not the kind of thing your superiors will understand,” said Sherlock, and he pulled out his wand with a dramatic flourish.

Greg stared at it. “What the hell?” he asked.

Apparently they were dropping the cousin story. Some notice might have been nice.

“Sherlock's not actually my cousin,” said John.

“Then who the hell is he? And why did you lie to me outside? God, you're not going to kill me, are you?” Greg had been doing a pretty good job of remaining professional through all this, but for a moment his mask slipped and John saw through to the upset and betrayal below.

“No,” he said quickly. “God, no, of course not, Greg.” He took a bit of a gamble and stepped forward to take Greg's hands. “I don't- I couldn't imagine killing you.”

Greg's hands were large and warm, and pressed back for a moment before he collected himself and cleared his throat, as if realising that holding hands with a suspect was probably bad police etiquette, although he didn't actually pull them away.

“I am John's fairy godfather,” announced Sherlock.

Greg's attention was ripped away from John's face. “His _what _?”__

__“You heard me,” said Sherlock. “I loathe repeating myself. Now, we have your criminal, and a trail of evidence leading to him – it's back at John's flat, if you think you could go in there without getting distracted by the bed. All we need now are the jewels. Unfortunately, Jim Moriarty is a rather clever man, and finding them using normal methods will probably take a great deal of time, during which John is likely to be locked up. We can't have that, so instead-” He waved his wand rather than finish the sentence._ _

__There was a trilling sound and a trail of star-shaped silver sparkles from the wand, and then a floorboard in the corner began to glow. Sherlock immediately crossed to it, waved the wand again to make it levitate, and then crouched to look in the hole that was revealed._ _

__“Ah, interesting,” he muttered, and pulled out a memory stick._ _

__“That's not the jewels,” pointed out Greg. John sent him an amused look as Sherlock glared at him. Greg looked a bit out-of-his-depth at the appearance of magic, but also as if he was determined not to let on that he was. John felt a wave of affection for him and squeezed his hands again._ _

__“It will lead us to the jewels,” said Sherlock. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a laptop that should not have been able to fit in there. “Give me a few minutes,” he said, sitting down in one of the chairs and turning it on._ _

__John thought about sitting down as well, but that would involve letting go of Greg's hands and now that he had them, he didn't really want to lose them. He might not get them back._ _

__“So,” said Greg after a moment of Sherlock becoming engrossed in his laptop screen. “Fairy godfather?”_ _

__John tried to hide his embarrassment with an eyeroll. “I know,” he said. “I didn't really think I was the type for that.”_ _

__“Don't be ridiculous,” said Sherlock without pausing in his typing. “You're exactly the type for it. You were lonely and depressed and losing hope. You had no family who were able to help and had alienated most of your friends. You needed a fairy godfather rather badly.”_ _

__That was a far more frank assessment of John's life than he really wanted announced in front of Greg, and he sent a glare at Sherlock's oblivious head._ _

__“It wasn't that bad,” he said to Greg, who didn't look as if he believed him for a moment. “I was just having difficulty adjusting to being out of the army, that's all.” And then Sherlock had appeared. Had it really only been yesterday? So much had happened since then that John felt like a completely new person. He could barely remember what it had been like to be the depressed man scrubbing a floor._ _

__And whatever Sherlock might think about the importance of having a True Love, it wasn't meeting Greg that had fixed that, although he was an extremely nice bonus. It was the excitement of everything that had happened, of getting to break his routine and do insane things like crash a princess's party, or get chased through the streets by palace security, or watch Sherlock solve a theft from almost no information. It was feeling as if he was doing something worthwhile with his time and not just slogging through another dull day as if it was a marathon to be run._ _

__“Oh,” said Sherlock in an intrigued voice. “This is clever, very clever. If I was one of you ordinary people, I'd never be able to crack this.”_ _

__“You mean, not a fairy?” asked Greg._ _

__“No, I mean stupid,” said Sherlock. “Most fairies are rather stupid as well.”_ _

__“Right,” said Greg, with both eyebrows raised. John couldn't help laughing at the expression on his face._ _

__“Yes, he's always like this,” he said._ _

__“Got it!” announced Sherlock before Greg could respond to that. “Oh, he's put everything on here. That's astonishingly arrogant. Here we are, plans of the Palace, a copy of the guest list, emails from private collectors bidding on the jewels and, yes, here we are, how he was intending to get them out of London. If it all went to plan, they should be in a locker in a swimming pool in Wandsworth right now.”_ _

__“Which one?” asked Greg, abruptly letting go of John's hands to look over Sherlock's shoulder at the screen. “Oh, I know it.”_ _

__He went to the window, pulled back the blind and opened it to talk to the nearest police officer._ _

__“This really is brilliant,” muttered Sherlock under his breath as he continued to look through the files. “If it hadn't been for me, he'd have got away with it entirely. The man's a genius.”_ _

__“He's crazy,” John corrected him. “And a criminal.”_ _

__“Yes, yes,” said Sherlock, but the admiration on his face didn't die._ _

__“Right,” said Greg, turning away from the window. “They're off to retrieve the jewels. We should get over to your flat for that evidence you claimed you had. And I'll need that memory stick.”_ _

__“Just give me another minute,” said Sherlock._ _

__“Now, Sherlock,” said John firmly. “The sooner this is done, the less likely we are to end up in jail.”_ _

__“They'd never be able to imprison a fairy,” said Sherlock._ _

__“They'd be able to imprison _me_ ,” pointed out John. “How would that help my Happily Ever After?”_ _

__Sherlock made an irritated noise, but shut down his laptop and handed the memory stick to Greg, who put it in an evidence bag._ _

__“Right, come on then,” he said. “I'll drive us over to John's flat. Whereabouts is it?”_ _

__“Drive?” repeated Sherlock. “Oh, dull.” He pulled his wand out again and waved it, and suddenly they were standing in John's sitting room._ _

__“Jesus Christ!” exclaimed Greg. John felt his legs wobble at the sudden change of location and had to sit down in a chair before they collapsed under him._ _

__“Sherlock, you are never, ever allowed to do that again,” he said. “Not without a bloody good reason and advance warning.”_ _

__Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Do you do anything other than complain?” He gestured around at the piles of paperwork that he had left lying around John's flat. “Here's your evidence, Inspector.”_ _

__Greg glanced around. “Ah, I don't-”_ _

__“Oh, honestly,” said Sherlock with intense frustration. “Do I have to hold your hand through every step?” He then launched into a high-speed recitation of the chain of deductions he had followed to find Moriarty, dancing through the room to wave at the evidence that backed it all up. It was mesmerising, and John stayed in his chair, watching him. Greg seemed just as impressed, although he did interrupt once or twice to ask for clarification, or express scepticism over a particularly tenuous connection._ _

__When Sherlock had finished, John couldn't hold in his admiration. “That was incredible,” he said. “Just amazing.”_ _

__Sherlock gave him the small, pleased smile that John was beginning to enjoy seeing. It was a lot better than Sherlock's usual expression of disdain at the stupidity of all living creatures who weren't him. He found himself plotting ways to make sure he saw it more often, and then realised that he wasn't going to have the chance to. Sherlock had proved John innocent, he'd found his True Love (or who he claimed was John's True Love; John was still unwilling to give anyone that title until they'd been on at least one date) and so he'd presumably be moving on to his next godchild soon._ _

__“I can't believe you put this all together in just a few hours,” added Greg. “You know, we really could do with someone like you helping out on tough cases. Don't suppose you'd consider moonlighting?”_ _

__Sherlock looked torn, and John could tell just how much he wanted to say yes. It'd been more than obvious that Sherlock had enjoyed himself solving the crime far more than he had as a fairy godfather._ _

__“I can't,” he said eventually. “Fairies are only allowed to interact with humans in very specific ways.”_ _

__There was the twinkling noise that John had come to associate with magic, and a man wearing a three piece suit and carrying a wand that looked more like an umbrella appeared in the room and cleared his throat. “That's not entirely true, Sherlock,” he said._ _

__Sherlock scowled at him. “Piss off,” he said. “I don't need your help here – it's done! Look! Happily Ever After!” He gestured between John and Greg._ _

__The man spared them a glance. “Indeed,” he said. “However, that was not my full purpose in sending you here.”_ _

__“Ah, sorry,” said John. “Who are you?”_ _

__“This is Mycroft,” said Sherlock, sounding as if that meant something he'd scraped off his shoe. “He's my brother, and he always insists on meddling. This is my case, Mycroft, go away.”_ _

__“Your fairy brother,” corrected Mycroft carefully. “Your fairy big brother, in fact. I am here for my own case.” He turned to Greg. “You would offer Sherlock a place as a consultant to the Metropolitan Police, is that correct?”_ _

__“Uh, yeah,” said Greg. “He was pretty useful on this one.”_ _

__“Useful?” repeated Sherlock. “I solved it entirely single-handed!”_ _

__“You also committed at least three crimes as you did so,” pointed out Greg. “The higher-ups don't really approve of that kind of thing.” Sherlock made a disgusted noise that expressed exactly what he thought of that._ _

__“Very well, then,” said Mycroft. “In exchange for his word that he will endeavour to stick within the boundaries of your laws, will you offer Sherlock the chance to work on cases with you?”_ _

__Sherlock's head whipped up and he stared at Mycroft with an expression John hadn't yet seen on his face, desperate hope warring with disbelief. “You know the Queen would never agree.”_ _

__“Who do you think sent me?” asked Mycroft. “You can't think anyone was interested in seeing you moping around Fairyland like you have been, or throwing those tantrums over nothing? I am here for your Happily Ever After, Sherlock.”_ _

__Sherlock was apparently struck dumb by that. Mycroft looked back at Greg and raised an eyebrow._ _

__“Uh, yeah, okay,” Greg said. “I suppose we could arrange something. God knows we could use all the help we can get.”_ _

__“Because you're idiots,” said Sherlock, but it lacked any bite._ _

__“Very well, then,” said Mycroft, ignoring his brother. “That's settled, then. All you need to do, Sherlock, is give me your wand.”_ _

__“What?” asked Sherlock. “No!”_ _

__Mycroft let out a very long sigh. Perhaps that was hereditary, thought John. “You know you can't stay here indefinitely if you're going to be using magic. If you give it up, though, you are free to live here and investigate crime, which we both know has always interested you far more than anything in Fairyland.”_ _

__Sherlock was silent for a very long time, then he pulled his wand out of his coat and handed it over. “There had better be a great deal of crime,” he said to Greg._ _

__“Not really something I have any control over, mate,” said Greg._ _

__“Just because it's a Happily Ever After doesn't mean it has to be forever,” said Mycroft, tucking Sherlock's wand away. “If you ever wish to return to Fairyland and take up your current job again, you need only call my name.”_ _

__“But that would mean having to see your face again,” said Sherlock._ _

__“Sherlock,” said John with exasperation. “Do you really need to be so rude? He has just done you a massive favour.”_ _

__Sherlock looked at him, then turned back to glare at Mycroft._ _

__“Thank you,” he bit out._ _

__John was almost as surprised as Mycroft looked. He might only have known Sherlock for a day, but it had become clear extremely quickly that phrases like 'thank you' were not in his repertoire._ _

__“Now piss off,” added Sherlock, which seemed a lot more in character._ _

__Mycroft gave him a nod, then disappeared again in a shimmer of sparks._ _

__Sherlock turned to John. “We'll need somewhere to live,” he said._ _

__John blinked. “We?” he repeated. “I have somewhere to live.” He gestured at the flat around him._ _

__“This place is horrible,” said Sherlock. “You can't possibly want to stay here. Besides, you prefer living with someone to being alone, and I will need someone to do all the boring human interaction things.”_ _

__“You mean, you need a dogsbody,” said John._ _

__“I prefer the term 'assistant',” said Sherlock. “Don't be difficult, John, we both know you're going to agree eventually.”_ _

__“He does have a point about this place,” said Greg, looking around._ _

__“Oh, fine,” said John. He had a sudden image of how his life was going to be once he did move in with Sherlock, being issued orders and demands and expected to sort out everything Sherlock couldn't be bothered with. He definitely needed to make a stand to prevent that, if he could. “You can find us somewhere, then.”_ _

__Sherlock looked taken aback. “Me? Why me?”_ _

__“Because you're the one insisting on it,” said John. “Besides, I'm going to be busy.”_ _

__“With what?” asked Sherlock, as if the very idea were insane._ _

__John just looked at Greg and raised an eyebrow. “Did you want to get a drink? Feels like we've not had a chance for a proper chat.”_ _

__Greg grinned. “Yeah, that sounds great,” he said. “Or we could go back to mine for coffee, and then chat afterwards.” The way he said 'coffee' made it more than clear that was not what he was suggesting._ _

__Sherlock let out a long groan. “Oh god, I should never have arranged for you to meet each other.”_ _

__John ignored him. “Sounds like an even better plan,” he said, then stepped forward to pull Greg down into a kiss. He was more than ready to start his Happily Ever After._ _


End file.
